


Twisted

by Badwolf36



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Consensual Sex, Darkness Around Stiles' Heart, F/M, Hallucinations, Imagined noncon, Knotting, M/M, Multi, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badwolf36/pseuds/Badwolf36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The darkness caused by the sacrifice to the Nemeton starts to affect Stiles. It creeps into every aspect of his life, even his sexual fantasies. And once it's there, once it settles in, it takes all those innocent dreams and <i>twists</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twisted

**Author's Note:**

> This is a really big departure for me. No surprise that a kink meme is responsible. There is a link to the prompt in the notes below, along with the warnings in the tags. All of the non-con is imagined or hallucinated. The consensual sex is between Stiles and Derek. If you feel the urge to or enjoy the fic, please leave a comment. Thank you. Enjoy.

**Title:** Twisted  
 **Fandom:** Teen Wolf  
 **Author:** [](http://badwolf36.livejournal.com/profile)[**badwolf36**](http://badwolf36.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Pairings:** Derek/Stiles (imagined Lydia/Stiles, Isaac/Stiles, Allison/Stiles, Aiden/Stiles/Ethan, Cora/Stiles, Scott/Stiles  
 **Word count:** 13,674  
 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Teen Wolf or any related properties.  
 **Warnings:** Imagined noncon, bloodplay, breathplay, painplay, bondage, hallucinations, consensual sex. Set after the end of 3A.  
 **Inspiration:** Written for [this prompt](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/4905.html?thread=606761#t606761) on [tnw-kinkmeme](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com).  
 **Summary:** The darkness caused by the sacrifice to the Nemeton starts to affect Stiles. It creeps into every aspect of his life, even his sexual fantasies. And once it's there, once it settles in, it takes all those innocent dreams and _twists_.

 

***********************  


It starts small, although any event that’s preceded by sacrificing yourself to an ancient tree probably can’t be classified as small.

***********************

At first, it’s just the flash of a faceless person, a teardrop pooling in the hollow of their throat. Stiles is jerking off at the time, one hand braced against the shower wall as warm water beats against his back and helps smooth the way for the one he’s got working his cock. The image is brief, just one in an ever-rotating and updating slideshow that he scrolls through for these times, so he doesn’t pay it much mind.

The next time, he’s again jerking off in the shower when he imagines kissing the delicate black leather straps that hold a bright red ball gag in someone’s mouth. He comes that time, come striping the shower wall and satisfaction settling deep in his chest, somewhere behind the tightness in his heart.

But it doesn’t stop there. He wakes up from a wet dream where he’d been tracing lines with a knife down his partner’s skin, lapping at the blood that welled up from the slight wounds and rutting into the crimson pool that had collected in their blood-slicked hip. He’s still shuddering when he goes to clean himself off, but he honestly can’t tell whether it’s from revulsion or lust.

After that, the people he knows start becoming regular players in his dreams/daydreams/fantasies/sick, wrong twistedness.

***********************

Lydia jokes with him all through lunch one day, throwing out arcane and obscure references that only he gets. It feels like a private moment between them, even though they’re surrounded by the rest of their ragtag pack. It really feels like they’ve reached a point where they can be friends, actual friends.

So he’s thinking about Lydia and her smile when he goes to bed that night, curling under the covers after double-checking that his window is unlocked (habit) and that he has his aluminum bat by the bed (paranoia).

_She’s smiling that pretty little smile at him right up until the point she’s not._

_“Too rough,” she murmurs, pushing at his head. He’s already made her come twice, writhing against his tongue and his fingers and the sheets._

_“You’re a tough girl,” Stiles says. “You can take it.”_

_And then he’s worrying her clit with his teeth, listening to her moans of pleasure turn sharp with pain._

_“Stiles, stop.”_

_He licks her slit from bottom to top, sliding his tongue over her clit again and listening to her gasp._

_“Do you really want me to?” he asks, although he’s not really paying attention to her response when he lets his tongue trace a path up her hipbone and to the scar that Peter Hale’s bite left behind. He sets his teeth into it and takes a mouthful, clamping down hard when Lydia tries to shove him off._

_“Stop,” she starts pleading. “Please, stop. Stiles, you’re good, please, you’re not like this, you’re not like him, please, please, stop!”_

_He looks up, and her perfect mascara is running down her face, blackened tears running into her sweat-soaked strawberry-blond hair. He wants her to scream, wants to hear his banshee cry out in agony and ecstasy._

_Stiles relaxes his jaw and smiles beatifically as Lydia scrambles off the bed away from him, pulling the top sheet with her._

_“What the hell was that?” she demands, hand planted firmly against her side._

_He sits up, achingly hard cock bouncing between his legs. He leans back against the headboard and sets his right hand to stroking himself as Lydia’s expression ranges from confusion to fury and back again._

_“You look gorgeous when you cry,” he offers, and comes when she crosses the room and slaps him._

When Stiles wakes up in the morning, he only remembers that he dreamed of Lydia and that she was upset. Upon discovering the mess he’s made of his boxers, he promptly forgets about it as he goes to clean himself up.

***********************

His panic attacks return on a regular (although unpredictable) basis. He’s gotten better at pulling himself out of them, but Lydia and, surprisingly, Isaac are also becoming experts at knocking him out of his own head.

Like now, when Isaac is holding both of Stiles’ hands between his own as they sit in the deserted locker room after lacrosse practice, counting breaths for him. They’re both still in their gear, Isaac with one glove still on.  

It’s as Isaac tells him to breathe in again that Stiles’ mind drifts from its panicked state into a scenario similar to the one he’s actually in, yet so far removed that his breath hitches and Isaac interrupts his count to get him back on track.

_“You okay, Stiles?” Isaac asks._

_“Yeah,” Stiles says, voice growing steadily stronger as he pulls away from Isaac._

_“Are you sure?” Isaac asks as Stiles turns to his locker, fiddling with the lock before pulling it open._

_“I’m positive. You’re awesome, Isaac.” He reaches both hands into his locker, winding the item he’s stashed there around his fingers._

_When he looks back, Isaac is only in his towel, unlike the dirty uniform he’d been wearing when he’d held Stiles’ hands._

_“You know,” he says, “I can see what Allison and Scott like about you.”_

_Isaac’s cheeks turn pink as he blushes._

_“They’re really great.”_

_“You shouldn’t sell yourself short in that equation,” Stiles says, trying not to let his thumping heart give away what he’s about to do._

_“Yeah, well…” But Stiles doesn’t let him finish. He lunges forward, knocking Isaac onto his back on the wooden bench and pressing the wolfsbane-soaked rope into his chest. “What the hell!”_

_Stiles slips the ends of the rope beneath the bench and crosses them before pulling them up and tying them in a quick knot. Isaac had been too stunned to do so when Stiles tackled him, but he starts struggling in earnest now._

_“Stiles? What the hell are you doing?!”_

_Stiles grins as he sees the way the rope is already blackening Isaac’s skin in a particularly appealing way._

_“I told you that I can see what Scott and Allison like about you. I like things about you too.”_

_He draws back Isaac’s towel, leaving the other teen bare. Isaac bucks up as he watches, and Stiles’ grin grows wider as he watches Isaac’s cock harden the slightest bit._

_“Let me go! Seriously, let me the hell go!”_

_Stiles grabs Isaac’s flailing legs and straddles them. Then he leans down and sets his teeth above and below Isaac’s right nipple. Isaac’s struggles abruptly stop as his breath hitches in a weird echo of how Stiles’ had done only minutes earlier._

_Stiles rewards him by only scraping his teeth together, closing them on Isaac’s nipple and drawing it between them until Isaac whimpers._

_He sits up, tracing the line of the rope with his fingers._

_“You’re pretty,” Stiles says and Isaac whimpers again, gaze going distant._

_Hating that, Stiles lets his palm rise up and then drop against Isaac’s cheek._

_“Don’t go away. Be here. Be with me.”_

_Isaac’s voice cracks as he asks, “Why are you doing this?”_

_“I told you, you’re pretty.”_

_He leans back down and traces his tongue up Isaac’s face, following the track of a tear in reverse. He slots his lips against Isaac’s and nibbles at them. Isaac remains motionless beneath him, and Stiles refuses to have that. He planned this, soaked the rope for hours and imagined how Isaac would react. This isn’t it._

_He slips his fingers under the rope, lifting it away from Isaac’s skin. Isaac sinks his fangs into his lip (and they are fangs) hard enough that blood starts running down his chin._

_Delighted, Stiles leans down and laps it up. He’s incredibly hard, and the fact that the copper smell and the sweet scent of the wolfsbane is finally starting to overwhelm the smell of sweat that permeates the locker room only makes him harder._

_“So pretty,” he purrs and smiles as wide as he can when Isaac bucks his hips against Stiles and cries out._

“Stiles!” Isaac yells, and Stiles takes one look at Isaac (unharmed, untouched, still in his lacrosse uniform, still holding his hands) and immediately starts panicking again.

He doesn’t calm down for a long time.

***********************

Allison takes him out to the Preserve one day to try to learn to shoot a bow. He’s not terrible at it, but he’s not particularly great either.

“You have to pull back all the way, Stiles,” she says, demonstrating for him. Her arms are hidden beneath the gray pea coat she’s wearing, so he can’t see much of what she’s doing muscle-wise, but it’s enough to tell him he’s been doing it wrong. “That’s part of the point of a compound bow. You draw it all the way back, and then the weight lets off.”

Stiles shakes out his arms, which feel like noodles, save for the left one, which has the additional feeling of pain from the multiple bruises that have accumulated there. Apparently, proper grip meant that the string didn’t slap you on the arm when you released it, and Stiles didn’t have proper grip. Sadly, his favorite red hoodie was not able to completely block that particular injury.

Allison lets the arrow fly, hitting the foam target block they’ve set up on a tree stump (a powerless, non-Druidic tree stump) 20 yards away from them.

“That’s great,” Stiles replies. “And as soon as I don’t feel like my arms are going to fall off, I’ll be happy to try again.”

“You just have to build up the muscles for it,” she says encouragingly, although there’s a twinkle in her eyes when she continues, “really be able to hit like a girl.”

Stiles groans and says, “That was awful. I expect that kind of thing from Scott, but from you? Awful.”

She smirks at him before dissolving into giggles as she goes to retrieve the arrows.

Stiles feels something in his chest squeeze vise-tight before he follows her.

_“Maybe bows and arrows just aren’t my thing,” he says. He jogs to catch up to her, gets close enough to draw a Chinese ring dagger from the holster on her thigh. “I’m always a close-range fighter in those online games I play. Archery? Not so much my area of expertise.”_

_Allison leans down and starts pulling the arrows from the target._

_“Online games are nothing like our lives, Stiles,” she says, still trying to stifle her laughter. “You should know that just as well as any of us.”_

_“You’re absolutely right,” Stiles says, spinning the dagger around the ring finger of his right hand. “But that doesn’t mean that some of it isn’t true.”_

_And then he’s got a hand around her throat, slamming her back into a nearby tree and making the arrows fall from her loose grip._

_“Sti…les,” she gasps out, pounding on his arms with her fists until he brings up his right hand, the one with the dagger, and angles the tip of it against her throat._

_“Ah, ah,” he says, dodging when she tries to bring her knee up into his groin. He flips the dagger sideways so that the grip is resting in his palm and the edge of the blade is cutting into Allison’s throat. A thin red line starts to bead up along the metal._

_“What the hell are you doing?” she gasps._

_“Come on, Allison,” Stiles purrs. “We both know the Nemeton has given us a connection. Don’t you feel it?”_

_“Not like this, Stiles,” she says. She spits in his face. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away, slipping his hand down her neck to her chest, unbuttoning her coat as he goes. She brings hers arms up to try catch him in the head and he pushes the dagger farther into her throat, until the muscle starts to separate. Her fists collide with his head, but the strength has been sapped from the attack and he can’t bother to care too much when his vision blurs slightly._

_She gurgles something at him, words stolen, and he reaches down to unzip his pants, his cock straining at the denim. He slides his free hand through the blood pooling around Allison’s throat and reaches down, taking himself in hand. It’s slick and dirty and there are tears streaming down Allison’s throat as she chokes on her own blood and she’s clawing at him, still fighting and…_

“Stiles?” Allison asks, cheeks pink as she blushes. Her gaze is centered on his crotch, and Stiles realizes that he’s unbearably hard, enough so that his cock is tenting his jeans, and that Allison is standing a few feet away, slipping her arrows back into the quiver on her back.

“Wow,” he chuckles awkwardly, covering his crotch with both hands. “Awkward moment.”

Allison gives a nervous sort of titter, which sounds weird coming from her, and turns back to the target.

“If we could just not mention this to anyone…” he starts, and Allison’s head bobs rapidly.

“Absolutely.” She hesitates for a moment before asking, “Should we call it a day?”

Stiles thinks of those pretty ruby beads on her throat, of how slick jerking off with her blood had been, of how her gasps for air had been the sweetest background music he’d ever known for masturbation.

“Yeah,” he says, hating how breathless he sounds, how he can’t will the hard-on away. “Yeah, I think we’re good.”

***********************

_He has Ethan and Aiden strung up by their wrists in a basement. He’s got them tied back to back with a rope looped around their chests and waists and ankles. It’s wolfsbane-infused and turning their skin black and blue as it burns them._

_“I’ll make you pay for this,” Aiden swears, eyes going red and then back to their normal color as he reels back in pain._

_“You can just let us go,” Ethan tries, trying for reasonable even with his fangs and claws out._

_They’re both stripped naked, their clothes piled in the corner. Their bare feet dangle a few inches above the cold concrete floor._

_Stiles sits up in the red plastic lawn chair he’s set up, taking an extra loud sip of the Coke he picked up at the gas station. He mauls the straw for a few more moments before setting his drink on the table next to him. The large plastic cup bumps into the knife he’s got there, the silver blade and its black leather handle pleasing to the eye. It’s also got more than a few runes engraved all over it, nasty ones he found in books Deaton didn’t really want to show him. He’s very persistent when he wants to be though._

_“You killed my friends,” Stiles replies calmly. “You tried to kill more of my friends. You threatened me. Letting you go would be as crazy as…” he pauses, mulling his words._

_“…as crazy as werewolves being real,” he decides aloud._

_Aiden growls and tries to move toward him, but bound as he is, he just sends himself and his brother swinging gently._

_Stiles laughs._

_He sits forward in his lawn chair, the plastic squeaking as he moves. He steeples his fingers together and rests his mouth against them and his chin on his thumbs. His elbows move to his knees, and he takes the time to study the two men. They’re naked save for the ropes, their built forms straining against the shackles and the rope and the sheer force of gravity pulling them down._

_In deference to the twins’ state of dress, Stiles is not wearing a shirt, but he’s got on a pair of red Beacon Hills lacrosse sweats and socks and tennis shoes because the concrete floor is really cold and what he has planned doesn’t involve his feet turning into ice blocks._

_“Why do you think you’re here?” he asks the twins._

_“You’re a coward who ambushed us with wolfsbane powder,” Aiden responds._

_“You’re getting revenge,” Ethan tries._

_“Wrong on both counts!” Stiles says cheerfully, throwing himself back in the chair. He traces a hand over his bare chest, teasing his left nipple with the fingers of his right hand for a moment. It had already been standing up in the chill, but now it sticks out a little more, and the attention sends a pleasant thrill to his groin. “Want to try again? Or should I just tell you?”_

_“Stop it with the games, Stilinski!” Aiden snarls._

_“I’ll tell you then,” Stiles goes on as if he hasn’t heard Aiden. “A guy has needs. I, in particular, have needs. And while those needs have understandably changed recently, I’m a resourceful guy. I adapt. And when I see a beautiful, brilliant opportunity, well, I take it.”_

_“What are you gonna do?” Ethan asks, still working slowly at the cuffs, but Stiles has latched them down extra tight. They’ll have to break every bone in their hand and wrist to slip a cuff, and Stiles isn’t going to let that happen while he’s around._

_Shifting before he stands up, Stiles takes another sip from his soda before palming the knife handle, pulling it into his right hand._

_Aiden snorts and says, “If you think you can do anything worse to us than our pack did, than you’re sorely mistaken.”_

_Stiles has to laugh at that._

_“That’s not very fair. I don’t know what your pack did, and you don’t know what I have planned. At least give me a chance to prove that I can do something cool.”_

_He’s standing in front of Aiden now, smile plastered easily on his face as he rolls the leather knife handle between his hands. Just from him looking, Aiden’s cock twitches a little._

_“Don’t even think about it,” Aiden says, and Stiles sticks his tongue out at him._

_“I told you, you have no idea what I’ve got planned.”_

_“You’re going to cut us in half,” Ethan says from the other side of his brother, and he sounds resigned._

_Stiles snorts._

_“Please. That’s what hunters do. So unoriginal. You’re with me and you’re getting a_ Stiles Stilinski Original _.”_

_The twins both shudder a little, although whether it’s out of fear or just a physical reaction to his announcement, he can’t tell. Either way, it sets them to swaying again. Aiden comes close enough that his cock brushes against Stiles’ chest._

_Stiles gives him a sunny smile moving around to face Ethan. He pats Ethan’s cheek._

_“You know, Danny really likes you.” Ethan snarls in response to that. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt him.”_

_And to Stiles’ surprise, Ethan does relax just the tiniest bit at that. It makes the expression when Stiles shoves the knife into his abdomen all the more satisfying._

_He screams, tone pitching from low to high, and Aiden starts yelling as well, unable to see what Stiles had done._

_“What have you done?” he screams over and over. “What the hell did you do to him?”_

_Eventually, Ethan’s screams start to taper off. Stiles pats him on the cheek again, amused by the glazed look in his eyes, before he moves back to stand in front of Aiden. The twins’ bodies are still moving from the force of his thrust and Ethan’s thrashing. Stiles moves with the ebb and flow as he traces the fingertips of both hands down Aiden’s chest._

_“What did you do to my brother?”_

_“Stabbed him,” Stiles says. He’s pretty sure that that had been apparent when he had moved around to Ethan with a knife in his hand. “That healing thing has really got to suck when you keep trying to heal around something.”_

_Almost on cue, Ethan whimpers._

_“Let him go,” Aiden says._

_Stiles lets his voice drop down in a mockery of hurt as he says, “But I wanted to play with_ both _of you.”_

_“We don’t want to play, you sick little freak!”_

_Stiles reaches out and seizes Aiden’s testicles. The werewolf whimpers pitifully as Stiles twists them._

_“But I went to extra trouble to get you both,” Stiles says, still in that mock-hurt tone. “And you can’t leave until we have some fun.” He lets his voice drop down, low and sinuous and dangerous (sort of a take on Peter Hale, if he’s honest with himself about it), and says, “We’re going to have_ lots _of fun.”_

_He lets Aiden’s balls go and moves his hand to Aiden’s cock, pumping it to full hardness. It takes some coaxing, but soon the teen’s dick is glistening with the pre-come leaking from the tip._

_Stiles wishes he could take them both himself and Aiden in hand, but the angle is wrong. Instead, he slips a hand into his sweats while he’s jacking Aiden and takes hold of himself._

_“Aiden?” Ethan gasps out. “What’s he…what’s he doing?”_

_Aiden moans, unable to answer when Stiles twists his cock just right. He’s mirroring the movements with his other hand, and if he had a few extra hands, he’d jerk them all off while sliding the knife in and out of the twins._

_Denied that, he drops Aiden’s cock, drawing another moan, and moves to stand between the twins’ swaying bodies. Aiden’s hips are trying to buck, trying to get attention back on his cock, while Ethan is dripping a small puddle of blood onto the concrete. The juxtaposition is so stunning that Stiles feels his cock jerk in his sweatpants._

_“I’m jerking him off,” he announces cheerfully. “There you swing, still trying to heal around that blade, and he’s just moaning like a whore.”_

_He pauses, tapping his chin with one finger before he addresses Ethan._

_“Does that piss you off?”_

_Ethan lets out a snarl._

_“Yes,” he says, gasping when the sudden movement he made in response to either get at Stiles or at his brother backfires on him and shifts the knife. “Yes, that pisses me off.”_

_Stiles rubs his hands together in satisfaction._

_“Excellent. Now, I’ve always wanted to try out that freaky twin telepathy thing. You know, see if you feel one another’s pain. Aiden, do you feel Ethan’s pain?”_

_“No,” Aiden says shortly, obviously feeling shame for getting pleasure while his brother was in agony._

_“Ethan, getting any pleasure vibes from your bro? Ooo, that sounds so wrong. And also sort of like a really bad porno. ‘Twin Sluts: Dual Pleasure Vibes’ or something.”_

_“No!” Ethan snaps._

_“That’s a bummer,” Stiles says, disappointed, before he brightens again. “Let me try it another way!”_

_He rips the knife from Ethan and jams it into Aiden’s side before gripping Ethan’s cock and jerking him as fast as he can._

_“How about feeling what the other feels now?”_

Stiles wakes up in just his sweatpants, the gray Beacon County Sheriff’s Department T-shirt he went to bed in tossed off into a corner of a room. He’s also spattered with come, from his groin to mid-chest, a fate his sheets have suffered as well.

He gets up, changes his bedding, takes a shower and gets back into his bed on autopilot.

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night, or any time in the next two days.

***********************

Stiles is aimlessly flipping through TV channels. It’s 2 a.m. on a Saturday, his dad has the night shift, and he’s too restless to try to sleep, his ADHD and the weight on his chest conspiring against him.

He pauses on one channel because he sees a flash of brunette hair that reminds him of Cora.

He hadn’t been lying when he told her unconscious form that the next time their lips met, she would be conscious. Before he even thinks about it, he finds his hand down his boxers, fisting his cock.

Humming to himself, he decides the girl on TV doesn’t look much like Cora, but the memory of her is still fresh enough that he can indulge in it.

_“Poor little wolf girl,” Stiles croons, winding Cora’s long dark hair around his fist. “All alone.”_

_“I’ll kill you for this,” Cora says, the strain of her efforts showing in her eyes, but not her body. Turned out the Kanima wasn’t the only supernatural creature with paralytic venom._

_“You can try,” Stiles agrees mildly, moving the hand not in her hair down to her waist. Grasping the edge of her maroon pullover, he rucks it up her body until it’s tucked up under her arms._

_“Hmm. That’s not right.” Examining his work, he decides that it’s not quite what he wants. He pulls the top up further, until Cora’s arms are drawn upward and the pullover is acting like a makeshift pair of handcuffs. When her face pops into view again after he maneuvers the collar of the pullover past her head, she glares at him._

_“What? No threats?” Stiles asks. “Your brother threatened to rip my throat out with his teeth, and that’s when I was helping to_ save _his sorry wolfy ass. I expect at least a little more effort than that from you, especially considering what I’m about to do to you.”_

 _“And what’s that, Stiles?” Cora rolls her eyes. “Huh? You think some stupid little brat like you is going to scare me? I will shove my hand down your throat, grab your balls and rip them out from the inside before stuffing them into your mouth so that you finally shut up. Don’t even_ think _about touching me.”_

_“That’s better!” Stiles say, pleased. “You’ve got fire!”_

_Cora winces and Stiles pats her cheek._

_“Oops, sore spot. Well, you’ll probably have a few of those by the time we’re through. Better get started!”_

_Cora tries to turn away from him, but she still can’t move. She obviously settles for shutting her eyes._

_Stiles strokes a hand over her cheek, enjoying the way she whimpers._

_“You know what I can’t decide?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. “I can’t decide whether I love or hate that werewolves heal so fast.”_

_Cora’s breath leaves her in a rush and Stiles preens._

_“I would love to really take my time with you,” he says, standing from the bed and stripping off his clothes. He sets his T-shirt, jeans, sneakers and socks on the carpet in a tidy little pile._

_He picks up a pair of blue-handled scissors that he’d set on the wooden dresser earlier. Then he climbs back onto the bed and swings a leg over Cora’s torso, settling back on her stomach and his own calves._

_“You’re pretty gorgeous, you know that?”_

_Cora’s frown deepens, but she still doesn’t open her eyes to look at him._

_“That’s okay,” he tells her, “if you don’t believe me. But it is.” He moves the scissors down, trailing the points from her navel to the edge of her bra. He’s disappointed that she can’t shudder like it’s obvious she would, but he comforts himself with how much he’s going to enjoy what he’s about to do._

_He opens the scissors and snips apart the center of Cora’s bra, using a bit more pressure to break the wire. He tosses the scissors aside before pulling apart the silky white-and-pink polka dot fabric (so not what he expected), and revealing the smooth tan flesh of her breasts and the dark brown of her areolas and nipples._

_When he looks up, he finds her eyes are definitely open now, pupils blown wide._

_“Gorgeous,” he remarks again, flicking her left nipple. It starts to stand up and he does the same to the other one._

_“You don’t have to do this,” Cora says, and her voice sounds small._

_He leans forward and strokes her hair before he says, “But I want to.”_

_“Go to hell,” she snarls, fangs growing._

_“I don’t have a comeback for that,” Stiles admits before taking a breast in each hand and shoving them together. “But I have to say, I love your breasts. Nice and soft.”_

_Stiles sits up and shifts until he can shove his hard cock between Cora’s breasts._

_“Oooo yeah, nice and soft.”_

_“Stop!” Cora yells, fangs out and eyes flashing yellow._

_Stiles keeps thrusting, rubbing himself against and with Cora’s flesh. He’s built this up for too long, worked himself up while he was waiting for Cora to wake up from the paralytic._

_“No,” he says with a smile, and lets go of her breasts to wrap his hands around her throat._

_He keeps shoving his cock against Cora’s body, squeezing his fingers hard until she gasps and keeps gasping. Stiles feels a pull in his groin, a pleasant warmth settling into the bottom of his stomach._

_Taking his right hand from Cora’s throat, he moves it down to his cock, pinning his erection between his palm and the curve of her breasts._

Stiles finishes with one last pull on himself, when he’s almost too oversensitized for it to feel good anymore, but he does it anyways.

He takes quick stock of his emotions. There’s bliss, because he just had a pretty awesome orgasm. There’s shame, because he came to the thought of choking the breath out of girl he had once given his breath _to_. There’s the teeniest bit of paranoia, because he thinks about what would happen if Cora ever found out (or Peter or _Derek_ ) and how slow she would make his death.

In the end, the bliss wins out, and he wipes his hand on a blanket he makes a note to wash later, sets his clothes to rights, and slumps back on the couch, thumbing through the channels again.

***********************

They’re sitting in Chemistry class (taught by the fifth substitute teacher so far this year).

Scott is fidgeting in his seat at the lab table and Stiles bumps shoulders with him since the sub (Mr. Collins, Cafferty, Cohen?) hasn’t been around long enough to know to keep them separated.

“Dude, what’s the problem?” Stiles whispers. He knows what his problem is and that’s that it is a million degrees in the lab with all the Bunsen burners going. He tugs off his blue plaid overshirt, leaving himself in his “Stud Muffin” shirt.

Scott starts swinging his leg, the gyrating black denim drawing Stiles’ attention for far too long.

“I don’t know,” Scott whispers back. “Restless?” he says, his face squinching up into an expression remarkably akin to a puppy.

“Scott,” Stiles whispers again, nudging Scott and pointing at the hand the other teen has on top of this notebook. There are claws at the ends of his fingers where normal nails should be, and they’ve sunk through the hunter green plastic cover and into the pages below. “Relax.”

“I can’t,” Scott says through gritted teeth and growing fangs. He doesn’t sound panicked yet, not really (and Stiles should know; he is all too familiar with panic), but he doesn’t sound particularly calm either.

_“Just relax,” Stile soothes. He drops his pencil onto his own notes and moves his hand over to Scott’s, slipping his thumb along the bottom curve of Scott’s hand and straightening it out._

_Scott’s fingers flex hard and he barely avoids stabbing Stiles, but he manages._

_Stiles moves his hand to Scott’s wrist, using it to tug his hand off the lab table._

_“Seriously, you need to calm down.”_

_Scott turns to look at him, and whatever expression is in his eyes is overshadowed by the fact that his pupils are flashing red._

_Stiles squeezes Scott’s wrist hard, managing to grind the bones together. Scott finally turns away from him to look down at his lap. He’s breathing deep, but not loudly enough that they’ve drawn anyone else’s attention._

_Stiles lets his gaze drop down as well, and he realizes that Scott’s cock is pushing up against the black denim in a way that can only be painful._

_He drops Scott’s wrist and moves his hand to Scott’s knee._

_“I can help,” he whispers. He starts trailing his fingers up Scott’s thigh, moving closer and closer to his prize. He had no idea how much he wanted this until now. “Pack should take care of their Alpha.”_

_Scott gasps out, “Stiles.”_

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinks. Then he blinks again. He looks at the desk and finds the clawed notebook.

He looks up at Scott’s face, which is bearing a look of confusion. And then he looks down, finding his hand on Scott’s thigh.

Scott sniffs the air suddenly, and his nose wrinkles.

“Stiles?”

Stiles shoots up from the table, knocking his gray metal lab stool over with a crash. The sub turns around from where he’d been writing on the board.

“Mr. Stablonski? Is there a problem?”

“Bathroom,” Stiles rushes out as he walks to the classroom door and yanks it open. Scott doesn’t follow him. He takes off running and doesn’t stop until he’s at the edge of the lacrosse field. He resolutely doesn’t think about what happened until he hears the period bell ring, and then he goes back inside. There, he just throws himself so deep into his textbooks for the rest of the day that he _can’t_ think about it.

But when he leaves for the day, Scott is standing by his Jeep with Stiles’ backpack and Chemistry textbook he abandoned when he fled the classroom.

Stiles approaches him slowly, dragging his sneakers against the asphalt.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Scott says, tossing Stiles his backpack. “You cool?”

Stiles hesitates a moment, debating whether to tell Scott about the dreams (Nightmares? Fantasies?) he’s been having.

“No, you’re cool. I’m fine,” he says.

“Dork,” Scott says.

He punches Scott in the arm as he pulls his keys from his backpack.

“Just so you know, I’m totally getting you a mani-pedi. Do you think you’ll want the pink polish or the red?

Scott smacks him on the arm (thankfully pulling his strength) before he moves to his bike.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

***********************

“Derek,” Stiles says, winded.

There’d been a message on his phone when he’d checked it that afternoon after school from an unknown number: “You should lock your window.”

He’d torn out of the school parking lot, keeping just enough under the speed limit so his dad’s deputies wouldn’t pull him over. He’d barely managed to set the brake and pull the keys from the ignition before he kicked the door open and stumbled out of his Jeep.

The lock to his home’s front door gave him some trouble, but he finally managed to get the lock and that door open as well.

He slammed the door behind him, bolted up the stairs and smashed into the door of his room.

And there was Derek, tall and dark and whole and smirk firmly in place.

“Derek,” he says again, almost tripping over himself as he moves closer to the man. Derek catches him by the elbow, but Stiles still falls forward into Derek’s dark gray Henley, inhaling the scent of forest and leather and musk. “Hey.”

There’s questions, one’s he been wanting to ask ever since Derek came back. But when he goes to ask one, all that comes out is “We should sit down.”

Derek nods hesitantly, and neither of them let go of one another as they make their way to the bed and sit down.

Stiles forces one of his hands to unclench so that he can knock the pile of notebooks and textbooks off his bed. Derek peers at the newly made mess on the floor.

“You’ve been busy,” he says when he catches one of the titles: “Druidic Symbols and Rituals.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Stiles says, and he leans his head on Derek’s shoulder, so pleased that Derek hasn’t shoved him away that he decides to push his luck.

Derek shocks him further by not only letting Stiles’ head stay exactly where it is, but moving his hand so that it rests on Stiles’ knee.

“Okay,” Derek says. He takes a deep breath before he adds, “Scott’s worried about you.”

“Scott has enough to worry about without me in the mix.”

Derek snorts.

“Certainly true.” He pauses, hesitating almost, before he says, “But someone should.”

“Should what?”

“Worry about you.”

Stiles lifts his head up then, so he can catch the look in Derek’s green-gray eyes. Derek stares steadily back at him, letting Stiles try to puzzle out the emotions he can see.

“Are mimics a thing?” Stiles asks suddenly, and more than a bit urgently.

“What?”

“Mimics, shapeshifters, well actually, never mind, ‘cause werewolves are technically shapeshifters, but pod people or shape stealers or anything that could take something else’s form?”

“You think…”

“You don’t do this,” Stiles explains patiently. “You save me, I save you, and we get on with our lives. We don’t do the touchy-feely emotional crap. You’re too closed off and I’m too used to keeping things together for everyone else to expect anyone will notice when I can’t breathe for days and…”

Derek leans in and captures Stiles’ lips with his own in a gesture that’s both soft and fierce and, somehow, perfectly Derek.

Stiles’ eyes slip closed without his input, and he shifts closer to Derek, curling into Derek’s supernatural warmth like a puppy in front of a fire.

He whines a bit like a puppy too when Derek breaks away.

“Stiles,” Derek says. “ _I_ worry about you.”

“Don’t,” Stiles demands. He fists a hand in Derek’s Henley. “Don’t say that. You don’t say things like that, Derek.”

“I used to,” Derek says. “Cora reminded me of that. And then Kate and my family, and Laura, and Peter, and Jennifer, and...I forgot. But I used to. And I think I could. Maybe. Again, that it.”

He shoots Stiles the most plaintive look Stiles has ever seen him give anyone, let alone him, eyes perfectly clear and focused.

Stiles can’t give him any response to that, so he leans forward and kisses Derek again. Derek grunts slightly into the kiss before his tongue traces Stiles’ lips. Stiles opens his mouth, letting the slick muscle invade him.

Derek’s tongue traces along Stiles’, coaxing him into a deeper kiss as he puts his arm around Stiles’ back and slides the hand on his knee up to his thigh.

They both have to pull away when the need to breathe becomes paramount, but they’re soon back at it, tongues and teeth and lips sliding together.

Derek is the one to break them apart again after they start pulling at one another’s clothes.

“What do you...?” he starts, before Stiles interrupts him.

“You. Just you. In any way.”

Derek lets out a low sound, lower than even a growl, and tips Stiles back onto the bed. Derek brackets him in with his forearms, which he braces his weight on as he throws his leg over Stiles’ own.

“You deserve more,” Derek says, moving up to stroke his fingers from Stiles’ forehead down to his cheek.

Stiles leans up and plants a short kiss on Derek’s lips.

“No one _deserves_ anything, Derek. But I want you. And, by some miracle, you appear to want me. So, let’s just...let’s do this.”

“I feel wooed,” Derek says before his lips curl up in a smirk, and Stiles throws his fist into Derek’s side. It makes the older man roll off him with an “Oooff!” that Stiles is positive is for show, but it also breaks the odd sort of tension that’s been permeating the room.

Laying side by side, Stiles speaks to the ceiling when he says, “I used to think Lydia was going to be the only one for me.”

Derek stiffens at his side, but Stiles continues, “You sort of snuck up on me. Maybe it was the constant saving one another’s lives, but you’re something else.”

He pauses for a second before adding, “Sourwolf.”

With a snort, Derek rolls back on top of Stiles, using his weight to pin him to the bed. The hard cock against Stiles’ hip has most of his attention, but he still manages to pay attention when Derek speaks.

“You want to talk about someone sneaking up on you? This loudmouthed teenager, who kept sticking his nose in where he didn’t belong, kept threatening to leave me to die and yet never did, kept coming up with these ridiculous plans that somehow worked...how the hell was I supposed to predict you?”

Stiles leans his forehead against Derek’s.

“I’m sneaky like that,” he says against the other man’s lips. “Like a ninja.”

“And someone with such a terrible sense of humor,” Derek adds before leaning down to kiss Stiles again. Then he sits back on his haunches and strips off his Henley, letting it drop to the floor.

Stiles takes a moment to glory in the beauty that is a shirtless Derek before he realizes that he can _touch_ him.

With tentative fingers, he reaches out to trace the curve of Derek’s abs. The warmth of his skin is a bit of a shock — one that pulls him firmly into the moment and lets him know unequivocally that he and Derek are together in his bed.

Derek’s muscles jump beneath his fingers and Stiles has to stifle a little yell of triumph because he feels powerful all of a sudden.

And maybe that’s it, maybe that sense of power is what triggers it, because he feels that weight around his chest, the one right around the heart that’s thumping wildly in his chest, squeeze tight.

When he looks at Derek again, he finds a group of four thin red lines down the tanned flesh and his fingernails at the end of them.

“I…” Stiles stutters, before he starts to scramble out from underneath Derek. Derek’s hand shoots out and grabs his shoulder, pinning him down on top of the brown blanket he has over the top of his covers.

“What was that?” Derek asks as the lines disappear, healing over as he speaks.

“No…nothing,” Stiles stammers out, still trying to get out from under Derek.

“It’s not nothing,” Derek insists. “You enjoyed that, but it scared you after. Why?”

Stiles let his breath out in a rush, much like he had when Gerard Argent had punched him the first time.

“I shouldn’t want to do that.”

“Do what?” Derek says, and while his voice is soft, his grip on Stiles’ shoulder hasn’t lessened at all.

Stiles takes a deep breath, then two more.

“The Nemeton…what we did … Deaton said it would leave a darkness around our hearts. And it did. I can’t tell what’s real sometimes, whether I’m awake or not. And sometimes, I dream about sex and doing…terrible, terrible things to other people so I can get off. And I can’t tell whether I’ve really done it sometimes. I can’t…” His voice cracks.

He takes a moment to gather himself, avoiding Derek’s eyes, before he whispers, “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been hurt enough.”

Stiles hears Derek huff softly, but he doesn’t dare look at him.

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Is your dad coming home tonight?”

Surprised by the change of subject, Stiles glances up at Derek quickly. He can’t read the expression on Derek’s face.

“Answer the question, Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles says. “He’s got the nightshift tonight. Helping that new deputy get into the swing of things. What does that even have to do with anything?”

Derek hums under his breath for a moment.

“I want the time to do this right.”

It takes Stiles a long while to process that.

“Wait, you mean you still want to do… _things_ with me?”

“If you’re going to call sexual acts ‘things,’ I may have to reconsider, but yeah. I still want to do ‘things’ with you.”

“But I’m broken!” Stiles insists. “Twisted! Wrong!”

“You’re Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles can’t breathe for a moment. “And I…I can deal with everything that comes with that.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I want to,” Derek says and then leans down and kisses Stiles again. It takes Stiles a long moment to respond, and when he finally does, Derek captures his Stiles’ lower lip between his teeth and bites down hard enough that Stiles can taste copper in his mouth, thick and hot.

“You bit me!” he complains when Derek lets him go.

“You scratched me,” Derek retorts easily. “Fair play. Now come on. I think we have some more entertaining things we could be doing than arguing.”

Stiles scrambles up again, but this time, his goal isn’t to get away. He starts tracing his fingers over Derek’s body again, admiring the way the muscles jump and Derek shivers as his fingers drop lower.

“I’m still a…” he says, stopping out of embarrassment before he finally blurts out, “I’m a virgin.”

This time, Stiles can’t mistake the noise Derek makes for anything but a growl.

“So I’ll be the first one to touch you,” Derek says. “Good.”

“Well, first would be a bit of a misnomer since I’ve had _some_ interactions, and of course, self-loving has always been on the table for me and…”

Derek slams his mouth against Stiles’, which effectively makes him stop talking.

“I’d like you to be the first one,” Stiles says when they break apart, Derek’s fingers already snaking around his shoulders and shoving off his blue-and-white plaid button-up.

It’s a struggle to sit up with Derek rutting his pelvis gently against Stiles’, but he manages. He pulls off his button-up and then strips off his T-shirt, throwing it in the same direction Derek had thrown his own shirt.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Derek says, shoving Stiles back down with a hand on his chest.

Stiles doesn’t have time to ask what Derek means by that before Derek’s tongue is licking from his navel to his left nipple. Derek takes the sensitive nub between his lips and his fingers start teasing the other (and Stiles had no idea how sensitive his nipples were until someone else was playing with them). Derek starts worrying the nipple in his mouth between his teeth and teasing the tip with his tongue.

Stiles whimpers and shoves his chest up into Derek’s mouth, wanting more.

Derek draws Stiles’ nipple up between his teeth, pulling it upward until Stiles is gripping Derek’s hair in his fists and crying out the broken syllables of his name.

“Mmm, De…rek, ah, God, that feels…oh, oh, there’s no way that should…hmmm, ah, yes.”

“Knew it,” Derek says, and he sounds triumphant.

“What?”

“That you couldn’t shut up even in bed,” Derek says, and he’s smirking again.

Stiles bats at his ears.

“I refuse to let you use my mouth against me.”

“You could use it _against_ me,” Derek leers, and Stiles hits him again.

“I can’t believe you actually just said that.”

Derek bends down again and takes Stiles’ other nipple into his mouth, making Stiles promptly forgive him without saying so.

Derek doesn’t attack his other nipple with his fingers this time. Instead, his fingers travel down Stiles’ chest, pausing briefly to tug at the hair of his treasure trail and sending fascinating sensations shooting down to Stiles’ groin, before he starts working at the button on Stiles’ jeans.

Stiles whimpers again as Derek’s hand finally manages to slip into his boxers and grasp his cock. The feeling of Derek’s hand gripping him tight is almost enough to have him shooting right there, but he bites his lip hard enough that the wound Derek created reopens and that distracts him.

“I want…I want…” he moans.

“I know what you want,” Derek says, and Stiles has to moan again, because that is _unfairly_ hot.

“Clothes,” Stiles says decisively. “Off.”

Derek laughs and rolls off Stiles and to his feet. Stiles watches as Derek hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans, then slides them forward until they are pulling the denim at the front away from the hard line the material is outlining. Then Derek’s long fingers deftly slip the button out of its hole and pull down the zipper, revealing a glimpse of black material. Derek pulls off his boots and then his socks, setting them neatly aside.

Then Stiles has to take some extra effort to breathe when Derek pushes both the jeans and the underwear down and then steps out of them, leaving him absolutely naked.

Seeing Derek shirtless had been almost commonplace before the man left town. Now, seeing him without a stitch on, Stiles wonders if this isn’t what people mean when they say they’ve had a religious experience.

“Now you,” Derek says, and it takes Stiles a moment to process that Derek is gesturing at Stiles’ jeans and sneakers.

“Don’t laugh, okay?” Stiles says as he slips off the bed, turning away from Derek.

He unbuttons his jeans and pulls the zipper down, then has to stop and sit back down on the bed so he can get his sneakers and socks off.

Then he stands up again and shimmies off his jeans and boxers, kicking them aside once he gets them down to his ankles.

It’s a shock to feel Derek’s hand on his bare shoulder, and even more of one to feel Derek’s other hand curve around naked hip. He shivers hard, and sways backward into Derek’s grip. Derek’s hard cock, slightly damp already, rubs up between the cheeks of his ass.

He absolutely does not whimper, so when Derek chuckles it’s completely unexpected (although if he can’t lie to Derek and his damn werewolf senses, he doesn’t know why he’s bothering to lie to himself).

“I have no reason to laugh,” Derek says, thumb stroking over Stiles’ hip. He hooks his chin over Stiles’ right shoulder, obviously looking down at where Stiles’ cock is twitching in anticipation, flushed almost purple at the tip, which is already glistening with pre-come.

“You’re no slouch in the looks department, Wolf-boy,” Stile says. “And I’m pretty sure you did just laugh.”

“Not _at_ you,” Derek says, and the distinction is comforting.

Stiles’ main problem then becomes that he can’t decide what he wants to do first, or most. He could thrust back into Derek, move Derek’s hand to his cock, fist his hand in Derek’s hair and kiss him, shove Derek back onto the bed — the possibilities are endless really, and with all of them spooling out in front of him as actual, real situations he could act on, Stiles finds himself paralyzed by indecision.

“What do you want?” Derek growls softly in his ear, and Stiles’ hips buck without any input from him at all. Derek’s hand moves from his shoulder to his hip, where he uses the grip he now has on both hips to pull Stiles closer so he can grind his cock against his ass.

Stiles twists around, and Derek’s hold loosens enough to allow it. The moment Stiles is facing him though, Derek seizes both cheeks of Stiles’ ass and squeezes tight. In retaliation, Stiles fists his hands in Derek’s hair like he’d been imagining.

“I have never truly understood the expression ‘wanting to climb someone like a tree’ until this very point in my life.”

Derek smirks.

“Glad to help expand your knowledge base.”

Stiles yanks at Derek’s hair until the smirk sharpens at the edge into a dangerous smile.

“Google-fu can only take you so far. How do you feel about giving me some practical experience?”

Derek’s fingers stop digging into his flesh at that, nostrils flaring.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Derek says, and Stiles curses and praises werewolf senses in his head.

“I’m not…” Derek’s eyebrow quirks up and Stiles sighs, letting his hands move from Derek’s hair to his shoulders. He then buries his face in Derek’s neck. “I’m a little nervous. I still can’t really believe that this is real. With everything that’s happened to me lately, all the stuff with the Nemeton, the darkness, I don’t think I can be blamed for that. And maybe my judgment’s compromised. I don’t know. But this feels real. You feel real.”

He breathes deep, and Derek smells good, warm and musky and real. Pulling away, he looks at Derek’s eyes, trying to analyze the emotion in the gray-green irises.

“It is real, right? I’m not going to start screaming to wake up because I’ve killed you, am I?”

“I don’t die easy,” Derek says evenly, and that should not be a comfort (it really shouldn’t), but it makes Stiles relax.

“Hurt me if I hurt you,” Stiles demands suddenly. “If we’re doing this, we’re going in as equal people.”

Derek shakes his head though, and says, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Why?” Stiles demands, and he doesn’t mean to whine, but his dick is rubbing against Derek’s and he is trying to be the best person he can be under the circumstances.

“Sex isn’t about always being equal, Stiles. Equal respect, yes. Equal actions, no.”

Stiles bucks his hips forward a few times while he absorbs that, turning it over in his mind. He likes to think that the slick friction helps him think, or maybe it’s the sound of Derek groaning softly that lets his thoughts percolate.

“That shouldn’t make any sense, but it totally does.” He sighs. “Fine, don’t hurt me. But if I do hurt you, please, please, please don’t let me do it too bad.”

He gives Derek his most pleading face (the one he jacked from Scott, and eww, not thinking of his best friend when he’s about to have sex with Derek. Oh god, he’s about to have sex with Derek).

Derek just raises his eyebrow again before he shifts his head down.

“Deal,” he says, before sealing his lips over Stiles’. The grip on his ass returns full force, and Stiles wonders vaguely whether Derek is trying to fuse their hips together through sheer muscle power and will. He also wonders if he’d really mind.

“Bed,” he gasps, breaking free of the kiss to breathe. “I…you should…I want you to…”

And then something rather urgent occurs to him.

He looks up at Derek, with his eyebrows and his body and his grumpy face and his amazing gentleness and stupidly tender heart, and Stiles blurts out, “I’m not a one-night stand kind of guy. At least, I don’t think I am.”

Derek’s eyebrows go even higher and he huffs. He then slots his left calf behind Stiles’ knees and trips him back onto the bed, following after him with an easy sort of grace.

“Neither am I,” Derek says, nipping at Stiles’ neck with teeth that may be just the tiniest bit sharper than the average human’s.

Stiles returns the gesture by sinking his fully human teeth lightly into Derek’s neck, worrying at the skin there until there’s a dark bruise that lasts for a glorious moment before fading away as Derek’s body heals it.

He goes to renew it and feels the darkness as it encroaches in his chest, so he forces himself to let go before he can rip Derek’s throat out. The sense of loss is profound and sickening, all at once. He pushes his hands into Derek’s chest until the other man balances himself on all fours over Stiles and the edge of the bed.

“Lube,” Stiles croaks out, “because chafing is terrible and I know you’ve probably whispered under your breath a hundred times about ripping me a new asshole, but I would really, really prefer if you didn’t make that threat literal.”

Derek chuckles, the jerk, but he obediently rolls off Stiles and rummages in the drawer of Stiles’ tiny nightstand after Stiles points at it.

Stiles inchworms his way across the bed until he’s properly lying on top of the blanket covering it, all the while trying to will himself away to calm down. He could come in an instant, or kill Derek in that very same moment, and he has a feeling that the pleasure he’d get from either action would be exactly the same.

“How would you like to do this?” Derek says, dropping the bottle of lube next to Stiles’ left hip as he climbs back onto the bed.

“What?” Stiles asks, a bit distracted when Derek’s cock is bobbing in front of his face. “And oh, condom, we should probably…wait, werewolf healing probably means…”

“No venereal diseases,” Derek confirms easily. “Although there is a nasty strain of the flu that can take us down just as easily as a human. So if you want a condom for the easy cleanup or just because, I can get one, but for basic sex ed concerns, it’s not really going to be an issue.”

Stiles hums, a bit dreamily, as he reaches out his fingers and wraps them around Derek’s cock. The hot flesh is stiff and a little bit silky under his hands, and Derek is uncut, which is something he’s never really had the chance to consider the ramifications of when it comes to sex (although the fact that Derek _is_ uncut makes perfect sense because of the healing and the fact that you’d have to do a circumcision with fire and yeah, stopping that train of thought).

“I sort of want to blow you, but I’m pretty sure I would just choke and throw up and that’s not sexy,” he blurts out.

Derek’s nose wrinkles.

“The image isn’t really a great one either.”

Stiles grimaces.

“Sorry. My brain is all over the place these days. Even right now.”

Derek strokes a hand down Stiles’ chest, pausing to tweak his right nipple, before dragging it down to where Stiles’ cock is jerking eagerly in anticipation.

“You’re going to come if I touch you, aren’t you?”

Stiles whines, grip tightening on Derek as he starts stroking the other man by putting one hand over the other and moving them up and over one another in a circulating rhythm that means Stiles always has a hold of him. The shift and drag of Derek’s foreskin under is palm is utterly fascinating, and he moves up a little so he can better see exactly what he’s doing to Derek.

Derek grunts when Stiles apparently gets the angle just right, hips rocking forward into Stiles’ movements.

With more willpower than Stiles certainly possesses at the moment, Derek pulls away and moves until he’s between Stiles’ legs, shifting Stiles’ thighs apart with quick taps of his knees.

“How’s your refractory period?” Derek asks, bending low enough that his warm breath is brushing over the head of Stiles’ cock.

“Good enough,” Stiles promises, and then has to stuff a fist in his mouth to stop the near-scream that escapes him as Derek’s mouth envelopes the head of his cock. Derek doesn’t get down very far, just laps at the head a few times as he tugs at Stiles’ balls, but it’s too much and not enough and Stiles comes hard, muscles jerking as he spills into Derek’s mouth.

Derek coughs a couple of times and Stiles recalls that in the pornos he’s seen, most people have the decency to warn their partner that they’re about to blow, but he can’t feel too guilty when Derek is smiling at him like he’s something special and because he feels amazing as aftershocks course through him.

“Good,” he says when he can catch his breath. “Really good.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Derek says drily, and he and Stiles both look at Derek’s still-hard cock.

Derek settles himself down on top of Stiles again, warm and sweaty skin rubbing against warm and sweatier skin, and kisses him. Stiles is still a little bit too sensitive for the pressure against his cock to feel good, and the taste of his own spunk is a little weird (he’s tried it before, of course; he’s a curious guy), but when mixed with the taste of Derek’s mouth (tea, sugar and what might be the sweetness of a muffin) it’s at least bearable.

“Now what do you want?” Derek asks, nails scratching gently against Stiles’ scalp in a way that makes him want to curl up and purr. “I could get you off again with my mouth. I could jerk us off together when you get hard. You could fuck me.”

Stiles’ heart thuds hard in his chest at that, and Derek raises his head to look at him as Stiles asks, “That’s an option?”

“Equal respect,” Derek says, like that’s an explanation, and huh, it kind of is.

“That would be…amazing. But I was kind of hoping that you would…uh.”

Derek leans forward, expectantly, and raises his eyebrows up.

“Yes?”

“That you would…um, you know.”

“All that time talking, all those big words, and you can’t even say the two that will get you what you really want?” Derek taunts good-naturedly, but it sets something burning deep inside Stiles.

“Fuck me,” he snarls, fisting his hands in Derek’s hair and pulling to the point that another person would have cried.

Derek just snarls back, grabbing the bottle of lube and shoving Stiles’ legs apart until the angle of the stretch he’s being forced into starts to burn a little bit.

“This what you wanted?” Derek asks as he quickly spreads the gel over his fingers and then slips the index finger of his right hand completely into Stiles on a single thrust. Stiles bucks up against it, because it’s too much and not enough and it _burns_ , but it feels _right._

“Mo…re,” he demands when he gains enough air in his lungs to spit out words. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

Derek leans forward, nipping across Stile’s chest and abs in time with his measured thrusts. Stiles squirms, trying once again to decide which direction he’d really like to move in when there are so many wonderful options.

The choice is taken from him when Derek comes back with a second finger, making Stiles ride the digits and the wave of pain and pleasure they take him on.

“Derek,” he forces out, trying not to bite his own tongue as his whole body shivers. Derek moves back to his nipples again, alternating between laving at the sensitive nubs (and he had no idea how sensitive they were until he had someone else playing with them) and scraping them with his teeth. “Derek, please.”

He’s already getting hard again, and it’s too soon and he feels remarkably like he’s going to melt, and then Derek slips a third finger into him and the pain is sharp and strange and lets him back away from an edge he didn’t realize he was about to hurtle off of.

Derek’s breath brushes against Stiles’ sweat- and spit-slicked skin, making goose bumps break out there in large swathes. Stiles shudders as Derek asks, “Does that feel good?”

Stiles’ jaw drops and he finds himself figuratively groping for words as he literally gropes Derek’s hair, shoulders and back.

“Are you…are you kidding me?” he asks incredulously.

When Derek looks up at him with an expression of what Stiles can only call genuine interest and concern, Stiles caves.  

“You can’t have any idea how good this feels. You’re touching me in ways I have dreamed about over and over and you’re…” he swallows hard, thinking of his nightmares, visions, fantasies, whatever they are. He swallows again before he continues, “And you’re doing it willingly.”

After a moment, Derek says, with the air of someone admitting a great secret, “I’ve never done this before. Like this.”

He waves his free hand in a way that could mean “with a guy” or could mean “with someone who isn’t just using me.”

“I want to make sure I’m doing it right,” he continues. “What was it you said? Making sure you have some good ‘practical experience?’”

The words settle something in Stiles for a moment, some sense of nagging discomfort from being the only one going into this blind. That settled feeling disappears the moment Derek’s fingers twitch inside him, sending his emotions and thoughts flying off like fairies (and are those real? He makes a note to check the bestiary later).

“You’re a savant,” Stiles moans as Derek’s fingers crook and send a sensation through his body that feels like how he imagines being struck by lightning must feel. “Fucking prodigy. Mmm!”

His own fingers slip past the shells of Derek’s ears, stroking the smooth patches of skin there, and Derek shudders. Intrigued, Stiles does it again, and then again. He gets the same reaction each time and, hey, three times is a pattern.

“Feel good?” Stiles asks, confidence mixing with curiosity. Derek just hums something that might be an affirmative against his right hip before he starts sucking a hickey there. Stiles strokes the spots a few more times in retaliation, and Derek’s shifting means that his stubble cheek rubs against the side of Stiles’ hardening cock in a particularly delicious way, but he doesn’t actually manage to deter Derek from his self-appointed task.

“You are _so_ lucky I like you,” Stiles says and Derek just grunts some sort of agreement. “The not talking in bed thing, totally called that by the way.”

That gets Derek to look up as he starts slowly pulling his fingers out of Stiles and, just when they’re about to slide free, thrusting them back in again in short bursts.

“You want me to talk?” Derek asks, and the pleasantness in his voice teasing and light and mocking, and Stiles wonders briefly if he slipped into a parallel dimension, if the Nemeton has the power to do that. He feels his fingernails digging into Derek’s shoulders and his chest getting heavy before Derek continues and distracts him.

“I do like to talk. I just like to listen more.” He crooks his fingers and Stiles lets out a high-pitched noise that tapers off into a moan. “Case in point.”

“Bas…tard,” Stiles gets out as he shifts his hips into Derek’s fingers, fascinated by the sensation they evoke just by moving softly inside him.

The word “rutting” pops into his mind and he has to stifle a giggle as it starts making him think of a nature documentary on wolves he watched. And then he starts thinking of some of the other parts of that documentary.

“Do you knot?”

Derek’s head pops up from where he’d been giving Stiles’ thighs some wicked beard burn.

“What?”

“Knot,” Stiles repeats as he twists his hips to encourage Derek’s still fingers to start moving again. “Tie. Plug. You know, so your little wolfy swimmers can get in some decent time at the pool.”

Derek pulls his fingers out of Stiles and sits back on his heels. The position means Stiles has a perfect view of the incredulous look on Derek’s face, complete with eyebrows that are almost disappearing into his hairline (and he really does keep meaning to ask any of the werewolves he knows what happens to their eyebrows when they shift. It’s freaky). Stiles fists his hands in the blankets just so he has something to do with them since he can’t reach Derek.

“Do I…knot?” Derek asks slowly, like he can’t believe he’s speaking those words in that particular sequence. 

Stiles nods carefully, because this is a legitimate question. A sex question. And since they’re about to have sex, this is the perfect time to ask it. He can’t figure out why Derek seems so confused. 

“I never have before,” Derek says, again speaking with a slow, measured (slightly disbelieving) cadence.

“So you could,” Stiles says, more to himself than Derek, “theoretically.”

Derek huffs out, “Yes, Stiles. My cock could theoretically grow a knot.”

He looks speculative for a moment, stroking his clean hand up Stiles’ thigh.

His voice has dropped an octave when he continues with, “It would keep me locked in your ass. I’d just keep coming and coming, filling you up, breeding you like a proper bitch.”

Stiles whimpers, but Derek isn’t done.

“And there’d be nothing you could do. You’d be pinned down, inside and out. I bet that knot would be right against your prostate. You’d be crying from oversensitivity every time either of us moved, but you wouldn’t be able to help yourself. You’d be humping the mattress and begging me to fuck you again, to jerk you off. And…”

“In me,” Stile interrupts. “In me, now! Fuck me, Derek. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”

Derek grins at him, fangs peeking over his lips. He grips Stiles’ thighs and pushes them apart, slotting his bent knees under them to keep them that way.

There’s the thick squelch of lube as Derek slicks up his cock. Derek then moves forward, taking his cock in hand and rubbing the head against Stiles’ hole.

And then he stops. It takes Stiles a moment to realize that’s what happened, and when he does, his gaze tracks up to meet Derek’s. There’s something tender in the way Derek looks at him, and it’s so distracting that Stiles freezes as well. Well, most of him. His cock twitches from where it’s standing against his belly, a dribble of pre-come connecting the tip to his stomach.

And then he realizes that Derek is waiting for _permission._ He feels oddly touched.

“I never suspected you were this sweet,” Stiles says, pushing up on his elbows and balancing on his left one so that he can reach out with his right hand and stroke it over Derek’s cheek, rubbing his fingertips over the rough grain of his stubble. Derek leans his face into the touch, and Stiles hums in satisfaction.

“Kiss me?” he whispers.

Derek doesn’t respond in words. Instead, he leans down, planting his still-slick hands on either side of Stiles’ chest and pressing his warm, wet lips to Stiles’ own. They don’t go beyond a simple, close-mouthed kiss, but it suffuses Stiles with a warmth akin to sitting by a fire with a cup of peppermint cocoa on a chilly winter evening.

It’s when he’s nearly out of breath that he feels Derek shift and then a moment after that, Derek’s cock is pushing against his hole. He relaxes the best he can (which isn’t much because this is really happening and that makes him tense without wanting to), and then Derek is sliding into him.

It’s not comfortable, but the pain isn’t so terrible that he needs to ask Derek to stop.

“Let me know if you need me to slow down or stop.”

Stiles smiles, and vaguely adds “Is mind reading a real thing?” to his mental list of questions he needs to ask about the supernatural world. The distraction has the bonus of actually distracting him from the discomfort as Derek moves a little further into him.

“Like I said: sweet,” he says, wanting to get the words out before he forgets.

Derek slides in another inch before pulling out a little and then thrusting forward again. Stiles’ fingers abandon the sheets in favor of clawing at Derek’s shoulder blades.

“Good,” he mumbles. “Really good.”

Derek wipes his hands on the blanket before he hooks both hands under Stiles’ armpits, using the grip to slide even deeper into Stiles’ ass.

“Guh,” Stiles say eloquently as the breath gets punched out of him. He feels full and stretched and there’s pain and the slightest hint of pleasure that teases him every time Derek thrusts forward.

“You smell good,” Derek rumbles, burying his face against Stiles’ neck. “Arousal smells spicy. And you always smell good,” and here Derek smirks, “although you still should shower more and lay off the body spray.”

His hips finally press flush against the back of Stiles’ thighs. Derek nips at Stiles’ neck before leaving a string of nipping bites and kisses up Stiles’ jaw. He kisses Stiles again when he reaches his lips, and there is nothing sweet or gentle about the kiss this time. Derek’s tongue invades Stiles’ mouth and Stiles fights back because he desperately wants — wants the struggle, wants the fight, wants to dominate Derek and be dominated by him. Stiles’ tongue batters at Derek’s until he’s gained the upper hand, slipped the slick muscle into Derek’s mouth and shoved his tongue down against Derek’s.

When they break apart, Stiles groans and bucks his hips against Derek’s, shoving him impossibly deeper into his body.

“Fuck me,” Stiles demands.

“I could hurt you,” Derek says reasonably.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles digs his fingernails into Derek’s shoulders and uses the grip to pull himself up until he’s straddled in Derek’s lap, knees on either side of Derek’s hips. The move lets him rise up and then sink down again.

“I thought I told you that was okay.” He flexes his thighs experimentally, and he ends up doing a little bounce on Derek’s cock. He’s always liked that expression, bouncing on someone’s cock. It sounded fun and it _is._ He does it again, goes a little higher this time, and Derek moans.

“You’re a menace to your own well-being,” Derek says, and that strikes a little deeper than just bedroom chatter (is this what people talk about in the bedroom? Stiles doesn’t have the experience to say) because of the darkness and the Nemeton and everything else.

“Looks who’s talking,” he retorts. He shifts his grip so he’s bracing his palms against the top of Derek’s shoulders before pushing up far enough that Derek almost slips out of him.

He hovers there for a moment, trying to decide whether its indecision or teasing that keeps him from slamming back down. It doesn’t necessarily feel good yet (and boy, had porn lied there), but he could see why it might get that way. And his cock is rubbing against Derek’s sweaty, toned chest in a way that is damn near perfect, so Stiles really can’t complain.

In the end, he must take too long, because Derek’s fingers wrap around his hips and ease him down ever so slowly. The pace is excruciating for Stiles, because now that he’s actually doing this, he’d like to go, go, go, but he can’t fight Derek’s strength.

“Mm..gh, this should not be as…ah…sexy as it is.”

“You think I’m sexy?” Derek asks, eyebrow popping up and Stiles lifts his left hand off Derek’s shoulder so he can slap it back down.

“Stop fishing for compliments, you gorgeous example of werewolfitude. You’re sexy and you know it.”

Derek’s eyebrow stays right where it is.

“Did you just quote a song at me? While we’re having sex?”

Stiles half-smiles, sort of embarrassed for himself.

“It could have been worse,” he defends, flailing a bit, and oh did that do some interesting things to his body. “It could have been much worse.”

“Please,” Derek says flatly, drawing Stiles’ hips up again only to lower them back down just as slowly as he’d done the first time. “Don’t enlighten me.”

“You’re fun,” Stiles says, and it shouldn’t sound so much like a shocking revelation, but it really is. “Why weren’t you fun before?”

This time when Derek’s eyebrow goes up, it’s in judgment.

 _Laura,_ Stiles’ thoughts helpfully fill in. _Peter. Kate Argent. Gerard Argent. All the Argents. Jackson the freaking Kanima, Matt, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Cora, the Alpha Pack, Jennifer aka mass-murdering girlfriend the second. Stiles, you are a moron._

“Forget I said that,” Stiles gasps out, hips twisting in Derek’s grasp and making the cock inside him stroke up against nerve endings and bits of flesh that do wonderful things. Derek is burning hot beneath him, which is providing great incentive to rub up against him (Stiles thinks he might be into temperature play. He also thinks he will need to use all his Google powers to identify some of these kinks Derek is showing him he has). “In fact, I’m just going to stick with nonverbal noises from now on.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d have to gag you for that to happen,” Derek says, and Stiles adds another kink to his master list of “Things He’d Really Like To Try In Bed,” which recently had its title amended to add “With Derek.”

“Pretty sure I might let you,” Stiles offers, then strokes his fingers over the spots behind Derek’s ears to distract him. Stiles realizes he’s made a miscalculation the moment Derek starts shuddering, because that motion extends through his cock, which sets Stiles to shivering. He shifts until he’s in a better position, then rises up and falls quickly before Derek can catch him.

“Didn’t think,” Stiles says moving restlessly up and down, like he’s not in control of his body anymore. “Didn’t think it could feel this good.”

Derek doesn’t remain idle. With a flex of his muscles, he’s fucking up into Stiles, moving with him. The rhythm isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough that Stiles already feels too close again.

The air in Stiles’ room grows musky and dense, and apparently his room has decent acoustics because the slapping sounds of their bodies coming together and the slick squelching noises of their fucking is echoed back to them.

He doesn’t notice it for a moment, too caught up in his own moans and all the noise they’re making, but he does eventually catch the low growl Derek is making. Derek’s fangs have once again made an appearance, cutting into the man’s lower lip as he bites down hard enough to split his lip.

Stiles surges forward, suddenly desperate to kiss him. He sucks Derek’s lower lip between his teeth, suckling at the broken flesh until the thick taste of copper hits his tongue, cloying in a way he’s never encountered before.

It’s probably the blood that drives him wild. The blood and the darkness and the lust combining. No matter what it is, he finds himself clawing up Derek’s back with his blunt nails, kissing him and driving down on his cock until it feels like he’s part of Derek and Derek is part of him.

It builds and builds and builds in his chest and the pit of his stomach and in his groin, a boiling heat that threatens to explode out of him and destroy them both. Stiles is frankly too gone to care. He just wants Derek. He wants to love him and take him apart and destroy him and put him back together and keep him always. It’s frightening and exhilarating and then Derek pulls away from their kiss to whisper brokenly, “Stiles,” and Stiles is gone.

His orgasm seems to go on for a very long time, as stripe after stripe of come shoots out to coat Derek’s chest and Stiles’ stomach with abstract designs. He doesn’t know how he’s coming that much after already coming tonight, but the proof is right in front of him.

And speaking of right in front of him, Derek is still fucking into him, plunging his cock into Stiles as fast as he can. Stiles feels wetness on his nails from where he’s clawed Derek’s back bloody, and he hadn’t meant to do that, hadn’t wanted to do that. He only wants Derek to feel good.

Wiped out and still shivering from aftershocks, Stiles clenches down as hard as he can as Derek shoves into him, and Derek’s low growl turns into a sharp snarl as he comes. Stiles can’t really feel Derek coming inside him, but he likes to think he can, likes to think that the warmth spreading through him is Derek’s come filling him up inside.

There’s a moment of vertigo when Derek bears them back down to the bed, laying Stiles on his back and laying down on top of them, his hard cock still in Stiles’ ass.

“Heavy,” Stiles complains when Derek’s weight slips against him more fully.

“Cushy,” Derek mumbles in response, pressing his lips to Stiles’ neck and letting his hips shift forward in a few lazy, rocking thrusts.

Stiles whines, because he’s sore and sensitive and if he gets hard for a third time he might cry, but he doesn’t do more to get rid of Derek then lightly paw at his shoulder. It’s when he feels the strange, tacky sensation on his fingers that he pulls his hand past Derek’s shoulder to look at it and realizes that his nails and fingers are coated in drying blood. He’d known it before, but seeing it makes it so much more real and horrifying.

He has to take deep breaths to stave off the panic attack that threatens to overwhelm his afterglow. Derek obviously hears and feels his heart start to race, because there’s a hand at his wrist gripping with bruising force.

“You don’t have to,” Derek says calmly. “I’m not hurt. I told you I wouldn’t let you hurt me.”

And shockingly, Stiles feels the knot of panic begin to dissolve and the darkness seems weirdly appeased, like a wolf that’s filled its belly with a fresh kill. He’s not really comfortable with the imagery, but Derek is still holding him, still inside him, still nuzzling him.

“Okay,” he gasps out. “Yeah, okay.”

Derek slips out of him after a few moments later, and there’s a flood of sticky wetness down between his cheeks that is a little bit sexy and a little bit gross all at once.

“No knot,” he says and Derek snorts.

“Not this time,” Derek says, and it sounds weirdly like a promise; like even if there isn’t such a thing as a knot, Derek is still saying that they’ll have a chance to find out together when they do this again. That they _will_ do this again.

“Want to let me up?” Stiles asks the ceiling, since Derek is still holding him down.

“We’ll figure it out,” Derek says into Stiles’ neck, his warm, damp breath tickling the short hairs there. Stiles doesn’t pretend to misunderstand that Derek’s talking about anything other than the darkness and the Nemeton because he’s exhausted, his defenses are down, and Derek’s blood is staining his hands.

Instead, Stiles presses his lips to Derek’s hair before saying the only thing that makes sense and seems true anymore: “I believe you.”


End file.
